


Two Roads Converged

by wildwordwomyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Erotica, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:52:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwordwomyn/pseuds/wildwordwomyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some times it's about battling. Other times it's about surrendering. This time it's about both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Roads Converged

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Title from the flip-side of Robert Frost's “The Road Not Taken”.
> 
> 2\. No spoilers. No own. Not real.

Stepping into the abandoned library is like stepping back in time. Waiting on a rooftop, watching clouds roll by on a sunny summer day, listening for the order to take down a target. Stakeouts in a stolen car doing surveillance where the only noise is a recently-heard jazz song playing on repeat in his head. Homelessness, lost in a pint of whiskey, fear and anger keeping him alive.

 

But now that Finch has summoned him he goes eagerly. When he walks into Finch's room he notices the man standing stiffly next to a window looking out instead of at his monitors. There are no new faces on the board so there is no new number.

 

Interesting development, John thinks curiously. “To what do I owe the honor of your request for my presence, Mr. Finch?”

 

Finch turns slowly. Too slowly for John's liking. Just as he's about to suggest they take a short break from the Machine Finch leans against the wall beside the window, discomfort obvious in the droop of his eyebrows. John grits his teeth in order not to rush over to offer assistance. Even if he did know how to help his partner he's pretty sure Finch wouldn't let him.

 

“Detective Fusco isn't as invisible he as assumes,” Finch answers, ignoring John's teasing tone.

 

“If you would tell me what's going on he wouldn't have to be.”

 

“There's nothing to know.”

 

Finch's light blue eyes narrow out of stubborn pride, causing John to sigh inwardly. He has no clue as to what will make the genius be more cautious out on the street, other than a surprise visit from Snow, or worse, Elias. The ex-agent could talk until his lips fall off and Finch would still believe that everything he does is enough. It's not. With enemies like theirs it never is.

 

“Finch-.”

 

“I assure you, Mr. Reese,” the other man interrupts, “the detective's skills could be put to much better use-.”

 

This time it's John who interrupts. “There is no better use!” The outburst shocks them both. The last time John got that loud with Finch was right before he wrapped a hand around his throat. Today his actions are no less revealing. John exhales to get himself back under control. It doesn't help though. “Please let me help, Harold.”

 

Desperation and a genuine desire to make things better for Finch propels him over to his side. The other man watches John warily, not quite understanding what's happening. He just wants to keep him safe. Keep him around. By now it's clear why, if only to John. Harold Finch came to him when he'd given up, picked him up and sent him back out into the world with a shiny new reason for living. Of course, no one could've predicted that the other man would also present him with someone new to love, someone he's become even more afraid of losing.

 

Finch's walls are still solidly built and doing their designated job when John sees his own traitorous hands reach into the air separating them. He pulls the genius close instead of walking away like he tells himself is the right thing to do, holding him tightly. For a long, silent second Finch is as stationary as a statue, trapped, his mind working hard to figure it out. John's eyelids lower but he doesn't let go, hoping the man finally gets it. More than anything he hopes he's not alone in this.

 

Right as John begins to retreat Finch's arms wrap around his waist. “I'm not leaving, John,” he murmurs.

 

Those words, in that voice of his, cause John's insides to flutter uncontrollably. He buries his face in the warm column of Finch's neck, fighting not to cry. He didn't think Jessica was going anywhere either. But then, she wasn't Finch. Without being aware of it John kisses his neck with his lips parted, pressing in further.

 

Finch's palms slide up toward his broad shoulder blades, cupping them. He whispers something that John can't decipher. It's too quiet and muffled by their suit jackets. Instead of asking for clarification John finds himself planting butterfly pecks on his jawline until he reaches his mouth. Only then does he open his eyes again, piercing the genius with an intense, undefinable look. Finch looks back, pinned. He seems scared. Of the ex-CIA agent or his own feelings, John isn't sure. But as usual he's not backing down.

 

Relieved, John pulls away just enough to put his hands on Finch's chest. “You have a bed here, don't you?” His fingers sweep over his upper torso until Finch gasps. He smiles, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Harold, I asked you a question.”

 

“...I...” It's the first time John has ever known him to be speechless. To be the reason why does something odd to his heart. It didn't skip a beat with Jessica and he was crazy about her.

 

“After you,” he says. He doesn't have to force his tone to sound tender. It comes out that way automatically. Then he takes Finch's hand in his own, his expression open.

 

Finch doesn't try to speak any more. He turns and walks out of their headquarters. John follows without doubt or hesitation. Not having had intimate relations with anyone since Jessica or being a virgin to men matters little. Finch is different, special. Hell, the idea of offering himself up on a silver platter is working on him already as he focuses on Finch's unyielding head bobbing rhythmically with his uneven gait.

 

John wonders what turns Finch's crank. Men? Women? Words? A warm gust of breath in his ear? A wet kiss on his navel? Big hands? Fast and rough? Gentle and languid? Is he a sensualist? He can't see the man enjoying sex that's too raw. But he's also never picked up on any type of vibe that would indicate what he preferences are. Until now he'd kind of figured he was asexual.

 

Finch pauses at a door at the other end of the hallway. John palms the back of his neck encouragingly. “No need to stop on my account.”

 

Apparently it's all the moment calls for because Finch opens the door quickly. His movements are inelegant, rushed. In this circumstance they radiate yearning, making John's hands shake. He's never been more turned on his life. When Finch faces him he grabs him, kissing him hungrily. He's careful with his caresses, gauging levels of pain, if any, but so far all he hears is pleasure.

 

Finch kisses like he does everything else. There's an intensity, a focus John feels privileged to witness. A searching tongue dives into his mouth, stroking his, stoking the fire building between them. John holds his head still so he can do all the work while Finch devours his lips and tongue. He has plans that do not include injuring the man before he's through with him. Especially when Finch starts to tremble. It's more pronounced in his bad leg and John's pretty sure that's not a good thing. He pulls back enough to look into his eyes, noting the unease right as Finch blinks it away.

 

“I'm fine, Mr. Reese,” Finch remarks firmly.

 

“Mr. Reese? Surely we've moved beyond that by now.” John's eyebrows raise. In the same careless tone he reminds Finch of exactly who he is. “And you're not fine. Shall I pick you up and carry you to the bed?”

 

“You shall not!” Finch exclaims indignantly. However, he does back up to the bed, sitting primly on the edge.

 

John grins and stalks toward him. When he's as close as can be without making the man spread his legs he takes off his jacket, dropping it to the floor. Those same nimble fingers begin to unbutton his shirt while he toes off his shoes. His grin widens when Finch's gaze locks onto his hairless chest. He reveals himself by degrees to give them both time to halt things if necessary. He also likes being watched like this. Finch's eyes are burning a hole through him, heating up his skin, his very blood, and he feels powerful, alive, wanted in a startlingly refreshing way.

 

“Harold,” he calls, his voice raspy from shallow breathing. The genius moves his stare reluctantly to John's face. “Touch me.”

 

Now that his shirt hangs off his shoulders Finch does. He runs his hands up John's chest, tripping along his scars, smoothing away bad memories like flowing water sanding down sharp edges on rocks in a riverbed. The ex-agent who stopped being innocent long ago closes his eyes and hums. Somehow the small, disfigured person he looms over has made him believe again, has washed him off and, at least for now, made him clean again.

 

He doesn't realize he's crying until Finch traces a tear trickling down his clavicle. His eyelids fly up, shocked. He can't remember the last time he cried. For Jessica he'd been angry. No, he'd been enraged. Still, he hadn't cried once. Her death cut so deep he didn't know what he felt most days. The rage was just simplest to identify. This? He has no idea what's occurring, only that whatever is broken inside him might actually be on the mend.

 

“Oh, John,” Finch utters. He leans forward to rest his cheek against John's stomach, nuzzling, comforting. The motion, small as it is, helps him calm down. John wipes his face and slides off his shirt, letting it fall on top of the jacket. He backs up a step to unbuckle his belt. “I thought...?” Finch queries.

 

“You thought wrong,” John responds, even more determined to carry on. His... episode... has ramped up his desire to show Harold everything he was, everything he could be, not destroyed it. “Unless?” he asks, the act of unzipping and pushing down his pants forgotten in the face of possible rejection.

 

“It would seem we were both mistaken,” Finch says, finishing the task himself.

 

Finch never takes his eyes off John's face as he does it, his hands swift and sure and near enough to the root of John to make him suck in a shaky breath. Finch smiles at the reaction. John smiles back when his companion discovers he's not wearing any underwear. The man stares, his head cocked like his namesake. John kicks off the pants and takes another step back.

 

“You're entirely over-dressed for this, Harold.”

 

Finch is in too much shock to get the hint. John grins, dragging the smaller man's jacket off. At that an almost silent whimper escapes from Finch, sending the signal John's been waiting for. He steps forward again, his hardness weaving in front of him. Finch licks his lips, only to scramble up and into another room. John strides over to the door of what he presumes is a bathroom.

 

“Finch?” he calls, rapping on the door. “Finch? Are you alright?”

 

“...I just...need a moment, Mr. Reese.”

 

Mr. Reese. John's forehead rests against the door next to his hand. He moved too fast, wanted too much. That's clear. Finch requires a soft touch, but John got lost in his own passion. He'd misjudged things. Tested the boundaries while they were still being placed and went too far. He decides an apology would be inappropriate.

 

“Take your time,” he finally says. Knowing Finch's affinity for puzzles he'll read between the lines.

 

“Thank you.”

 

John puts his pants back on, moving gracefully to sit in a desk chair by a window. He glimpses the sun starting to set and crosses his legs. He purposely doesn't imagine what Finch is doing, what he's thinking. He doesn't let himself imagine anything, just observes all the reds, oranges, purples the sky gets splashed with. He'll wait forever if he has to.

 

Fortunately only five minutes pass before Finch opens the door. To make it interesting his crisp white shirt is completely unbuttoned, slightly damp at the collar where he must've sprinkled his face with cold water. His chest is narrow, chocolate brown and gray mixed into a fine, inviting mat of hair. John catalogs all this in the span of a second, then returns his attention to the window guiltily.

 

“Going somewhere, Mr. Reese?” Finch asks, as if the answer is of no consequence.

 

“Would you like me to?” John won't look at him, guarded.

 

“Yes.”

 

The impact, though it tears him in two, doesn't show as he stands. He buckles his belt and reaches for his shirt. Barely subduing his thundering heart, he slides back into the shirt quickly, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

 

“John?” The word stop him in his tracks. On a good day Finch is a blank slate, but his name had come out gentle, confused. John's gray eyes meet him. “You're not coming to bed?”

 

“You didn't mean-?”

 

“No!” Finch blushes sheepishly. John refuses to think it's a nice change. “I was teasing you since you're always teasing me...”

 

John doesn't even attempt to suppress the laughter that erupts from him. “Jesus, Finch, you're as bad at this as I am!” Misunderstanding after misunderstanding after misunderstanding. It's fitting. He shakes his head fondly. “What a pair we make.”

 

He comes toward Finch, on high alert now. He can't afford another error. The other man remains where he is, allowing the return of their chemistry. John runs a thumb around Finch's mouth, asking permission. Once it's granted John leans in, kissing him with restraint. Finch groans in the back of his throat, grabbing at his hips, telling John in his own way not to hold back. Releasing his grip on his passion he kisses Finch more aggressively.

 

Finch backs John up against the edge of the bed this time and it's John's turn to groan. Hands at his waist unbuckle his pants and push. They pool at his ankles while Finch pulls his own shirt off. Before John can protest Finch's pants and underwear are down around his ankles as well. Night has crept up on them and John wants to see.

 

“No lights,” Finch says, anticipating the question.

 

Security maybe? Or Finch wanting to hide in the darkness? John does some of his best work at night anyway. He lays down on the bed, taking off his socks and wrist-watch in the minute it takes Finch to climb on. John doesn't try to help, aware of how little the effort would be appreciated.

 

“John, I... I'm not capable of much anymore.” Was he ever? John bites his lip in order to keep himself from wondering that out loud. Instead he rolls them with deliberate foresight.

 

“Get comfortable, Harold,” he warns. “This could take a while.”

 

Once Finch has a pillow tucked under his neck and the rest of his form is as flat as possible John swoops down from his hovering crouch, kissing Finch. Finch kisses back so skillfully his knees grow a little weak. He would never have guessed Finch to be so good at it. This alone has him extremely excited, and he's not sure if it's the kissing or if it's because it's Finch but whatever it is winds him tighter and tighter.

 

“What do you want?” Finch's eyes in the moonlight shine like silver, flashing how much he craves this. John almost surrenders right then and there. His voice drops lower than even he knew it could. “What's your fantasy?”

 

“You,” Finch answers promptly, his hands kneading the flesh at John's hips.

 

“How?”

 

When Finch says nothing John brings his pelvis down, his spread legs exposing him to the feel of the other's erection. Suddenly he knows exactly what Finch wants and he'll be damned if he doesn't want it too. He rubs against Finch as much as he dares without causing pain, panting in the crook of of his neck.

 

“Please tell me you have supplies here,” he mumbles.

 

Finch squeezes his hips, stilling his undulations for a moment. John grunts and rears his head back. When he looks down at Finch his eyes are black, dilated, ravenous. He heels as commanded, although he can't guarantee how much longer he'll be able to control himself.

 

“Nightstand to your right. Top drawer.”

 

John leans over, unashamedly keeping his backside in contact with Finch's pelvis as he reaches into the drawer. He takes out a foil packet and a bottle, unable to confirm what they are until he sits back up. Holding the items up to the moonlight filtering through the window he quirks a smile at the genius.

 

“Should I ask?” He waves the condom and lube.

 

“No.”

 

He chuckles and places the condom on the stand, then uncaps the bottle. “You'll be gentle with me, won't you, Harold? This is my first time, after all.” He doesn't add that the man's rather large endowment will most likely take some getting used to.

 

He coats the fingers of his left hand liberally before putting the bottle down next to the condom. He stretches upward, his hand disappearing between his legs. His index finger slips in unhindered, making him groan again. His stare snags Finch's while he works himself open with one, then two, then three fingers, his heart bursting from adrenalin and the erotic fascination displayed in Finch's drawn expression.

 

“John!” It's a plea and a demand, one John simply can't disregard.

 

John removes his fingers, picks up Finch's manhood and sinks down on it in one second flat. He feels a slight burn as he's stretched but waves it away. The pain is bearable. Finch's reaction, though, is a sight to behold. He's looking at him the same way he looks at his monitors, every ounce of mental energy concentrated on him and only him. It's heady. So heady John climaxes before he can truly enjoy himself, causing him to go somewhere he's never been. When he comes back he's spread over Finch like silly putty, sticky and sweaty and satisfyingly full in a way he has no explanation for.

 

“Mr. Reese?” He hums. “Are you able to get up? My leg...”

 

Oh. Ooh. John inhales deeply before sitting up and releasing Finch. “Did I hurt you?” he inquires, concerned. He shifts to his side to face the other man. He massages up and down Finch's leg with strong fingers.

 

“Not really. Tonight has just been a little much.” Instantly John feels bad. He was selfish. He should've looked after Finch more. But then Finch smiles sweetly, honestly, and John realizes he has no regrets about any of it. He blinks as that fact penetrates. “We better clean up and get some rest at home, Mr. Reese.”

 

What does that mean? He drifts from motel to motel and still can't say with authority where Finch goes when he's not working with him on a number. And does that 'we' include him or is it a generic address? Even after what they've shared it could go either way. With Finch anything is possible.

 

“Whose home?”

 

Finch's smile grows more private. “Mine.”

 

He shudders at how possessive the man becomes. Especially when he leans over to kiss him. John Reese has a home now. In more ways than one, and it feels good. He snuggles close happily, trusting that Finch will lead the way once more.


End file.
